


Come A Little Closer

by superagentwolf



Series: With Religious Fervor [3]
Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Canon, Alternate Universe - Canon, Gen, M/M, Pre-Grindelwald, Pre-Slash, possibly canon compliant
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-28
Updated: 2016-11-28
Packaged: 2018-09-02 18:47:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,150
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8679247
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/superagentwolf/pseuds/superagentwolf
Summary: Graves suspects Credence is more than he appears to be.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Best read while listening to "Come A Little Closer" by Cage the Elephant.

It is late at night, stars dusting the sky like so many pieces of shattered glass. The dirty water a few feet away mirrors the scene, shaking it minutely in the breeze.

Credence is waiting.

He is always waiting. Sometimes he thinks the man won’t show up. Sometimes he wonders why he _does_ show up. There is no reason. There is no way to help yet. There is no true work being done. All he does is heal, and Credence greedily takes, over and over again.

He cannot help what he wants, and he hates that.

Credence doesn’t wait long, soon greeted by the familiar swirl of black-and-white that is Graves. He thinks to himself that in the midst of the magic, when the man is not quite there but not _not there_ either, there is a shade of grey.

His eyes are intense. Credence wants to shrink under their gaze, fall to the ground, boneless, limitless.

“Were you able to leave quietly?”

“Yes,” Credence manages, fighting the urge to look over his shoulder.

His head still moves a little, pulled inexorably towards the black building he can’t even see. It’s as if his traitorous body means to submit him to punishment.

Lately, he’s been less reticent. He can only think that it is Graves’ doing.

“She will not hurt you tonight,” Graves says quietly, taking a slow step closer.

_It’s not her I worry about now,_ Credence thinks to himself.

He’s had a bad day. He was disciplined. His not-sisters were reprimanded. The streets were unforgiving and harsh in the cold winter air. Even the people were colder than usual.

He can feel it, twisting in his chest. Curling in the hollow space he’s been told the devil carved.

“I- I can’t,” Credence tries, desperate.

He wants to tell the man. He wants to tell him about the darkness inside of him, the evil that calls, the power he cannot help but submit to. He _wants_ to.

“Shh,” Graves immediately comforts him, briskly stepping forward. His hands are at Credence’s head, firm but gentle as they cradle him close. “Shhhhh.”

Credence gasps a sob, eyes stinging with the acid smoke of his own deception. His own sinful desires. _I shouldn’t want this,_ he tells himself. _I should not want him._

And then he realizes what he’s thought.

He desperately tries to pull away, shaking his head.

“No-,”

“Credence-,” Graves begins, letting go immediately even as his hands linger close, ready.

“I-,”

He does not have a chance to finish.

A man emerges from a dark alley. He looks like a common thief, down on his luck. Whatever he is, he immediately sees the two men and decides to inch closer, a hungry look in his eyes.

“Leave us,” Graves immediately says, dismissive. He is cold and brusque.

“Sir, I only want-,”

“Leave.”

“All right,” the man acquiesces, but he does not move. “but if I were to tell the patrolman? Would he perhaps be interested?”

Credence feels the darkness in him coil. A wave of unchained disgust and offense rises in him at the man’s suggestion. He wants to say, _listen to him, he is more powerful than you know,_ but he cannot form the words. All he feels is the bristling anger at the vagrant who is slowly approaching Graves.

_Get away from him,_ he thinks, and then the chains break.

* * *

Graves feels it before it begins.

He knows it’s coming. He has suspected, really, little bits and pieces informing him. At first, he’d considered that Credence was simply an abused boy. Over time, body language and emotional trauma had led Graves to believe otherwise.

Now, he thinks he knows.

The dust on the ground lifts, just a fraction, and hovers in anticipation. Graves turns away from the homeless man to look at Credence.

He is pale in the moonlight, angular jaw clenched just as his fists are, eyes fixed to burn a hole in the ground. The air around him vibrates.

He almost calls his name but then he remembers the thief and he turns, voice low as he issues the spell. The man turns around, vaguely dazed, and walks back the way he came. It takes only moments and then Graves is turning back to Credence, cautious as he steps closer.

“He’s gone,” Graves tries calmly, reassuring. “See? No one to bother us.”

He receives no response. The boy tilts his head painfully, a hand coming to press at his temple as if to relieve some unknown pressure there.

“…go _away_ ,” he finally says, but it is internalized, directed not at Graves but someone else.

“He’s gone,” Graves assures Credence, moving slowly closer. He can feel magic buzzing in the air. “He’s gone now. It’s only us. Just us.”

Credence breathes heavily, both hands at his temples now, and Graves thinks he sees a shift in the atmosphere. It’s as if the boy himself is a mirage, fragmented and stacked in an imperfect reflection.

“Credence,” Graves finally says, hoping it is the right thing to do.

A gasp and then Graves comes immediately close, arms ready to support Credence as he sags against him. He sighs, allowing Credence to relax. When he raises a hand to secure the boy he carefully brushes his thumb close to the neck, feeling.

A buzz and a pull, low, thrumming. _Magic._

Credence cries softly into the night and Graves lets him, staring at the stars as if they will give him the answers he needs.

_How do I help him? How **can** I?_

* * *

“You aren’t…afraid?”

Graves’ eyes soften- _oh, how soft,_ \- and his hand is at Credence’s arm, cradling it reassuringly.

“Of course not,” the man says quietly. “There is nothing to fear.”

“…it’s strong,” Credence gulps, eyes darting to the busy street at the end of the alley.

“So am I,” Graves replies, solemn expression lifted at the edge by his tired smile.

Credence nods, thinking, _yes, you are, you are so strong,_ but he cannot give voice to his thoughts.

“…so I…I’m a _witch_ ,” Credence manages and the words are scraped from his throat.

_Burn the witch,_ a little girl sings in his head. _Burn the witch._

“A wizard, really,” Graves recalls, and his smile falters a little. His eyes are searching.

_He is searching me,_ Credence thinks. _For cracks. He is looking to see that I am fine._

It is a strange feeling, having someone worry for him.

“Do I… _could_ I…,”

“…learn?” Graves finishes, looking just a little sorrowful. “Perhaps. It might not be too late.”

“It’s dangerous,” Credence says, reading the man’s face.

“ _You_ are not dangerous, Credence,” Graves promises, hand twitching abortively as if he is about to move it. He doesn’t. “But you _are_ harming yourself.”

“How?”

“You’re keeping it hidden. It’s hurting you, to keep it hidden,” Graves explains.

The worried line is there, Credence notices, between dark eyebrows. He sees it smooth away for seconds sometimes- not often, but enough. Enough that he thinks perhaps- _not really_ , his mother’s voice says- Graves is happy to see him.

“But it could hurt others,” Credence whispers.

And that is the problem. His power, his mother has always said, comes from the devil. It is evil. Magic whispers pretty things, but in the end it takes. It destroys.

“…I could hurt you,” Graves says, serious.

Credence blinks.

“No,” he immediately denies, vehement. “No. You would never.”

“But I could,” the man repeats calmly. “I know how. I know the spells.”

“You wouldn’t,” Credence says, louder. “You would not hurt me. You are _good_.”

“And so are you,” Graves finishes, confident. “You are not evil, Credence. You only live in evil. Surrounded by it.”

Credence lets a breath out he hasn’t realized he’d been holding. _He says I’m good,_ he thinks dazedly. _He can’t- he doesn’t know me. He doesn’t know…_

“I have been in the darkness,” Graves whispers, suddenly very close, and Credence breathes slowly, intoxicated by the scent of pine and a warm body. “But I do not hide in it anymore.”

“…you wear it,” Credence finishes, raising his head to gaze at Graves through eyes spilling tears.

“Yes,” Graves agrees. “I wear it. But with _others_ \- others like me- I shed it.”

Credence breathes in shakily, hands grasping at the black-clad arms enclosing him.

“I will help you,” Graves murmurs. “I will help you shed the darkness.”

* * *

He had only left because he was out of tea.

It is late at night and Graves walks down the street in loose evening wear, tired and ready for a bath. He is contemplating the day’s work when he hears it.

There is a shrieking noise, terrible and tortured, echoing in the distance.

_What is that?_

He logically knows that the patrol will be able to help. He knows this, yet something tugs at him. Some unnamed instinct drives his feet forward, propelling him into an alley where he can safely disapparate.

He emerges a few dozen blocks down and almost falls into a yawning tear in the street.

“What-,” he begins, blinking, and then the shriek echoes again.

He turns to see the edge of a black-red cloud churning around the corner of a building.

The pain and crackling static in the air dance on his tongue and he takes a single step forward, mouth opening in a soundless cry. He _knows_ this. He _knows_ it.

He runs without care, snapping in and out of apparition. When he manages to get ahead of the cloud, he prays that he has done some good in the past weeks. He steps before the approaching storm, watching street lights pop out of existence.

“Credence,” he calls, firm but pleading.

The cloud recoils, pulsing inwards for a moment. It is still approaching, however, so Graves desperately raises a shield, hoping to stay in the path of destruction. He tries again, a little louder, knowing agents will arrive later to cover up the mess.

“Credence! It’s me! Graves! Listen!”

The cloud seems to fight itself, snapping and compacting in pieces while others angrily grasp outward. It arrives in a moment and fine cracks run along Graves’ shield, spidery under the rolling blackness.

The cloud does not move past him, though.

“Good boy,” Graves says, “Good. Listen to my voice. Come back.”

The cloud twists, mutinous, conflicted.

_I have to let him know it’s me,_ Graves thinks and despite his worries he dissolves the shield, watching as the waiting essence floods closer.

It is heavy on his skin. He feels the familiar static, a dark crackle that burns just as it sparks. It would be painful- _is_ painful- but he is only thinking of what is contained within it.

“Credence,” he says softly. “Come back. Dear boy, come back. Come to me.”

The screech warps into a cry and the smoke is pulled in, down, resolving around a vague figure.

“Good,” Graves murmurs supportively, moving closer. “Good. Come, Credence. Come back to yourself.”

And then he does, eyes rimmed pink-red, pale skin flushed. He is in flannel pants and a white shirt that is too large for him, collar hanging loosely to expose a weeping red cut on his collarbone.

“Oh,” Graves sighs, heart aching. _Was this my fault? Was he punished for leaving to meet me?_

“…s-s- sorry,” Credence sobs, hands visibly shaking.

“No, dear boy, no,” Graves quiets him, wiping Credence’s tears, watching the boy lean into his palm. “It’s not your fault.”

He moves his hand over the cut, feeling the blood sticky against his hand even as it disappears. Credence shudders in his arms, even in his pain craving contact, and Graves angrily wonders just how much Credence has been starved. _Is his punishment the only contact he receives? Has his pain been the closest thing to pleasure he has been allowed?_

The cut is gone then and Credence sobs into Graves, thin body curled in on itself. Graves easily pulls him closer, murmuring low words of comfort, and disapparates them into the boy’s bedroom. He quickly soundproofs the room, guiding Credence to the bed.

“It was b-bad,” Credence gasps through the last of his sobs, squeezing his eyes shut as if he can erase the memory.

“It wasn’t your fault,” Graves whispers quietly, kneeling by the bed. “You were hurt.”

“But I hurt others,” Credence cries, shaking his head.

“You were hurt. Credence, if you are hurt, you can call me.”

“…how?”

“Here,” Graves offers, reaching into his pocket. It is a simple talisman, engraving worn by his own thumb. A trinket he’d once used to communicate with friends at school. “Think of me and touch this, and I will come to you. Wherever you are- no matter the time.”

Credence holds it in his palm as if it is the moon itself. His other hand hesitates, fingers hovering over the cool metal.

“…you will come to me?”

“I will come to you.”

**Author's Note:**

> Well, that was fun. I heard the song while doing homework and immediately knew I had to write this. Obviously it /could/ be canon compliant since we don't know how much Graves knew about Credence (if anything). Personally, I think Graves probably at least knew him a little, but maybe that's just my wishful thinking. Anyways, hopefully you enjoy. I'm loving these two. I'm probably going to end up writing a lot of AU stories!


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